Tortallan universe though never mentioned. Tolkien poem. One of Bilbo's.

--

I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen,
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
in summers that have been;

He remembered, as he sat in the worn chair by the hearth, he thought back to those days. When he fought, with tooth and claw. He fought, because it was right.

Or, so he thought at least.

Of epic battles, spurns of his horse. Tilting and riding forwards, laughing, and mourning for the lost.

The commander would ride before their rank, and yell out, speaking of glorious victories and soft maidens that would await the soldiers' return. he spoke of Glory. So much Glory.

Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.

The freshly fallen leaves changed colours and fell as he rode by. So many people admired the passing landscape, he amongst them.

He remembers now, the glory, to ride into battle in the midst of orange, yellow and red. In the end there was a lot more red. But the colour was added. And blood was shed.

I sit beside the fire and think

of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall ever see.

He remembered, the glory they spoke of, to ride into battle with the snow on the ground. Freshly fallen and cold. It was not so glorious, he realizes now, than it was cold. Their breaths a contrasting white in the air.

It was cold, and yet they still yelled their encouragement to the raised fist.

Riding forwards. To Glory.

For still there are so many things
that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring
there is a different green.

He remembered riding through the mossy forest floors, with new born flowers, of white and blue, of every hue. He remembers not giving them a second thought.

Because flowers were no beauty compared to life.

And he loved life.

And he lived, well, he lived for battle, for Glory.

I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago,
and people who will see a world
that I shall never know.

He remembers, when fighting, looking into the eyes of his enemies, of their last breaths.

Of the blood that bubbled to the side of their mouths.

He remembers, he did it to them.

People who will never live again, never see the world change, cities strive, never see the changing of the leaves as they lie, forever still, on the cold and harsh winter floor.

But all the while I sit and think

of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.

Now, he sits all alone, in his house of brick and stone. Wishing he hadn't done so much of what he had.

He had done it for glory.

But when he remembered the cold,

the harshness,

the deaths he witnessed and caused.

The life of a soldier.

There was no glory.

--

I'll probably expand on this in And Spring Will Come Again. But I couldn't resist.

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xxTunstall Chickxx

14/10/08